


Blame It All Upon a Rush of Blood to the Head

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's mostly an accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame It All Upon a Rush of Blood to the Head

It’s mostly an accident.  
  
Santana would blame it on alcohol, except she didn’t have any.   
  
She’d blame Brittany, but when she pulls back and glances up out of the corner of her eye as much as she can, Brittany looks just as slightly confused as Santana does, so Santana stops trying to blame this on something and starts paying attention.  
  
Brittany’s hands are cold against the slip of skin between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans and the tips of her fingers are just barely hidden under the cotton of the t-shirt Santana stole from Puck the last time she tried to date him, before she got tired of his constant whining about blue balls.  
  
She tries to see Brittany’s eyes – that’s how she’ll figure this all out – but the blonde is too close and she’s breathing against Santana’s temple, her lips grazing against Santana’s skin every time she inhales.  
  
The bottle of water she came into the kitchen for is sweating into a puddle on the counter, sliding across the tile towards where Santana has her hands braced.  
  
Now that she thinks about it, she’s the one trapping Brittany to the counter, her hips pressed against the blonde’s, holding the two of them together in the middle of the empty kitchen.  
  
She tells herself to take a step back, let her best friend slip out from between her body and the counter; just take a step back and smirk and grab her water bottle and go back outside to where they were practicing dance moves; take a step back and pretend this never happened and call Puck later.  
  
But if she moves at all, she moves closer to Brittany, her hands sliding against the slick countertop.  
  
“S,” Brittany says, her voice different than anything Santana has heard before. “Santana.”  
  
There’s a question there Santana can’t – doesn’t want to, will probably never be able to – answer and she lifts her head, kissing up as far as she can reach without lifting onto her toes or tugging Brittany’s head down. She finds a pale expanse of skin, Brittany’s neck, and follows it down until her lips touch the cotton of Brittany’s tank top. Brittany’s hands flex under her t-shirt, the tips of her nails scratching so lightly that if she wasn’t hyperaware of it she’d never feel it.  
  
It makes her feel like she has permission, though, whether or not Brittany was giving it, and her mouth slides back up Brittany’s neck, sucking at the line of Brittany’s jaw before she exhales slowly and tells herself to man up.  
  
She’s Santana Lopez. She has boys begging on their knees and girls cowering at her feet and Brittany always at her right hand and kissing is one of her strongest suits, so needing to tell herself to “man up” is unacceptable.  
  
So she just does it: reaches one hand up, water dripping off her palm, and grabs Brittany by the chin, tilting her head down and kissing her on the mouth, sucking Brittany’s bottom lip between her own.   
  
Brittany’s hands clench again, twisting the fabric of Santana’s shirt as she kisses back, her lips parting when Santana’s tongue traces against them, then past them, finding her teeth. Santana feels Brittany moan; feels it through her whole body as her hand slides down the nape of Brittany’s neck, spreading against Brittany’s breastbone, sliding under the strap of her tank and the collar, just resting there.  
  
She doesn’t feel Brittany’s hand leave her back; barely noticing when Brittany turns them and presses her against the counter instead. She’s too focused on Brittany’s tongue pushing into her mouth to feel them slide along her sides, gripping her legs where her shorts end and lifting Santana until the top of her thighs are bumping against the cold ledge. She throws her weight back as subtly as she can and her shorts absorb the water as she settles on the low counter, Brittany stepping forward as her hands slide around to the top of Santana’s knees.   
A moan slides out between her lips as Brittany pulls back to take a small breath and Santana only lets her inhale before she’s kissing Brittany again.  
  
It tastes something like vanilla and sweat and like the cupcakes Brittany made one year, for Santana’s birthday.   
  
It’s like her first sip of wine cooler: so cool and so sweet that she wanted a second and a third and pretty soon she looked down and the whole bottle was empty. She steals a second kiss and a third and now Brittany’s tank is bunched up under her sports bra and Santana is trying to stop her hips from lifting up off the counter.  
  
She can feel the lines and curves and points of Brittany’s teeth against the tip of her tongue and under her hands Brittany’s body contracts and expands as she breathes, the slow and steady rise and fall of skin.  
  
It’s warm and wet and when she flicks her tongue against the roof of Brittany’s mouth the blonde makes a noise that sounds like a whimper and Santana wants to bottle it and keep it in the top drawer of her nightstand, all for herself.  
  
 _That_  makes sense. She always wants to keep Brittany to herself, she always has. There’s a selfish nature lurking inside of her that wants to take Brittany and hide her away from the rest of the world. The blonde is just too good, too nice, too happy to see Santana every morning that she’s afraid that one day, Brittany will wake up and realize that Santana isn’t like everyone else; that Santana is really mean. And Brittany will just leave her for everybody else that is kind and who would share Brittany with the rest of the world.  
  
So she rationalizes this based on the idea that if she has this with Brittany – as Brittany’s hands push at her t-shirt, nails raking against her ribcage and her mouth moves down the curve of Brittany’s neck, nipping at the smooth skin – then she doesn’t have to share this part of  _them_ ; that she can have this part of Brittany that no one else will have as long as she does.  
  
“Brittany,” she murmurs against pale skin, not sure why she’s saying it, her hand cupping Brittany’s breast through her sports bra, thumbing the fabric-covered skin until a hard peak pushes against her palm. She feels Brittany arch towards her so her other hand drifts up, mirroring the first.  
  
She’s rounding second base in her kitchen with her best friend; water is seeping through her shorts and laundry-day Superman underwear; fingernails she painted Cheerio red earlier in the day are making half-moon shapes in her side as Brittany whimpers again.  
  
It was mostly an accident.   
  
All she wanted was a bottle of water. She lifts her head from the hollow of Brittany’s throat, panting hard, and rests her forehead against Brittany’s, her hands dropping and thumbing against Brittany’s hipbones.  
  
“What was that?” Brittany asks hoarsely, exhaling into Santana’s mouth.  
  
 _What’s it matter?_  isn’t the answer Brittany is going to want even if that’s the first thought that comes to mind, so Santana grins as crookedly as she can and winks as coolly as possible. “It was the best kiss you’re ever going to get,” she says, false bravado hidden by the smile Brittany aims at her.  
  
“Maybe,” Brittany says slowly, drawing the word out, squirming away when Santana wriggles her fingers against the ticklish spot on Brittany’s side. “Okay, okay.  _One_  of the best,” she adds quickly, taking a step back when Santana frowns and reaches for her.  
  
She keeps reaching until she catches the bottom of Brittany’s tank and then she pulls the girl towards her, hands sliding around Brittany’s waist like they’ve always belonged there and she’s just figured it out. Brittany meets her halfway, tilting her head up as Santana dips her head down and it’s easier to breathe this time. Easier to let her hands roam across Brittany’s abs without hesitation. Easier to not act like a thirteen year old making out with an older boy under the bleachers when she should be learning fractions, not what “frenching” is.  
  
Brittany breaks the kiss and smiles at her, as if making out is something they do all the time. “Maybe it’s the best kiss I’ll ever get,” she says shyly. “But maybe,” she drawls, “you could keep trying until I make up my mind.”  
  
Santana smirks and shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to her one way or the other, even though the tips of her fingers itch to trace Brittany’s spine from the back of her neck to the top of her Cheerios-issue shorts. She checks the clock, making a big deal of counting the minutes until the hour, sighing when she hits  _20_  and then turns back to Brittany.  
  
“I guess we could,” she says slowly, but she’s grinning.  
  
Brittany reaches behind her and picks up the abandoned water bottle, twisting it open and taking a long sip. “Now,” she says. “We can.”


End file.
